Horrified I spit out my food and profusely apologized for the words that came out of my mouth.
I couldn't believe I uttered, "Que bueno" after Sara told me her grandmother (la bisabuela de los ninos) had just died. That day.
And to top it off, it was one of those days where I felt I would never learn Spanish. School was hard. I left feeling defeated. And my morale was very low (bottom of the barrel).
I had a horrific coffee that afternoon that made my stomach upset so when dinner rolled around I was just focusing on keeping everything down.
I usually know what's going on at the dinner table, especially when I put my energy into it, but that night I zoned out and thought I could ride on a few words here and there. I thought Sara was telling me about the visitors that had been at the house just an hour earlier. I thought we were having light conversation.
I thought wrong.
"Que bueno!"
Sara literally stopped in her tracks. Paola gasped. Pablito's eyes were as big as saucers.
Sara retold me what she had said and that's when I spit my food back onto my plate and attempted to rectify the situation.
Needless to say I went to bed sobbing.
On my knees in prayer I begged God to remind me why: Why I quit a beautiful job and life in Boston. Why I left my family and friends. Why I put a pause on a desire that's been on my heart since I can remember. Why I thought I could learn a foreign language (successfully). Why I thought I was cut out for such an endeavor.
I restlessly slept. Awoke at 4AM to the sound of a cockroach. Killed said cockroach 45 minutes later. And spent the rest of the morning thinking up ways I could get out of the activity that would require me to be in a group setting all day, speaking Spanish, and trying.
I almost texted Emilia to ask her if we could stay back. I almost didn't put my tennis shoes on. But then I prayed the Litany of Trust (through more tears). And I thought of my community. And how I'd look back at this time and remember not if I was able to use the correct sentence structure or remember the word for bird (I always get this mixed up with the word for couple), but I'd remember sharing something new and wild with my new friends, my new family.
So I pushed on. And I'm so glad I did.
------------
It's Guatemala's Independence Celebration and one of their traditions is Antorcha de la Independencia, or the running of the torch. Groups of people (families, schools, churches) light a torch, representing liberty, and run from town to town. Someone runs with the flame as everyone follows behind.
La Union organized a run and it was an all day affair. We drove about 45 minutes to Lake Amatitlan, had a couple free hours, and Marisa soon stood before our small crowd and lit our torch.
We sprinted away from the town center as buckets of water were thrown at us (another tradition of a torch run), and laughed at the spectacle of following a flaming torch.
We ran in total about 6KM including a short stint on a very busy highway, down a huge hill (ouch my knees), into Antigua and back to the school. Ryan and Adam matched my pace and made me giggle. The bus followed us honking it's horn. Everyone blew their whistles. People in cars waved and cheered us on. The views were spectacular. It felt like a real race, like we were running for a purpose.
Sweaty and quite rosy I looked around at my new friends. I began politely crying to myself how I landed these people, who've known me for such a short time, who have already worked to lift me up in every small way. Through prayer (nothing quite more uniting than falling to your knees in desperate prayer together), hugs (a simple reminder that you are not alone), listening (on runs, one-on-one dates, and even reluctantly in group activities), protection (being catcalled by a truck of men while Adam and Ryan - two gentle, gentle hearts - come to your defense screams, "I've got you"), nurturing moments (so many small sacrifices for each other), and of course our biggest and best method: laughter.
Most of the time I've been here I've felt way in over my head. I've felt like I'm failing or faking or misplaced.
And then I have days like this. Where I'm forced to recognize how far I've come, what I've done and learned while I've been here, who I've shared parts of my heart with, and the ways I see our community building.
I take such comfort in knowing that together, we're (literally) running toward what's next (Honduras is SO CLOSE).
I couldn't believe I uttered, "Que bueno" after Sara told me her grandmother (la bisabuela de los ninos) had just died. That day.
And to top it off, it was one of those days where I felt I would never learn Spanish. School was hard. I left feeling defeated. And my morale was very low (bottom of the barrel).
I had a horrific coffee that afternoon that made my stomach upset so when dinner rolled around I was just focusing on keeping everything down.
I usually know what's going on at the dinner table, especially when I put my energy into it, but that night I zoned out and thought I could ride on a few words here and there. I thought Sara was telling me about the visitors that had been at the house just an hour earlier. I thought we were having light conversation.
I thought wrong.
"Que bueno!"
Sara literally stopped in her tracks. Paola gasped. Pablito's eyes were as big as saucers.
Sara retold me what she had said and that's when I spit my food back onto my plate and attempted to rectify the situation.
Needless to say I went to bed sobbing.
On my knees in prayer I begged God to remind me why: Why I quit a beautiful job and life in Boston. Why I left my family and friends. Why I put a pause on a desire that's been on my heart since I can remember. Why I thought I could learn a foreign language (successfully). Why I thought I was cut out for such an endeavor.
I restlessly slept. Awoke at 4AM to the sound of a cockroach. Killed said cockroach 45 minutes later. And spent the rest of the morning thinking up ways I could get out of the activity that would require me to be in a group setting all day, speaking Spanish, and trying.
I almost texted Emilia to ask her if we could stay back. I almost didn't put my tennis shoes on. But then I prayed the Litany of Trust (through more tears). And I thought of my community. And how I'd look back at this time and remember not if I was able to use the correct sentence structure or remember the word for bird (I always get this mixed up with the word for couple), but I'd remember sharing something new and wild with my new friends, my new family.
So I pushed on. And I'm so glad I did.
------------
It's Guatemala's Independence Celebration and one of their traditions is Antorcha de la Independencia, or the running of the torch. Groups of people (families, schools, churches) light a torch, representing liberty, and run from town to town. Someone runs with the flame as everyone follows behind.
La Union organized a run and it was an all day affair. We drove about 45 minutes to Lake Amatitlan, had a couple free hours, and Marisa soon stood before our small crowd and lit our torch.
We sprinted away from the town center as buckets of water were thrown at us (another tradition of a torch run), and laughed at the spectacle of following a flaming torch.
We ran in total about 6KM including a short stint on a very busy highway, down a huge hill (ouch my knees), into Antigua and back to the school. Ryan and Adam matched my pace and made me giggle. The bus followed us honking it's horn. Everyone blew their whistles. People in cars waved and cheered us on. The views were spectacular. It felt like a real race, like we were running for a purpose.
Sweaty and quite rosy I looked around at my new friends. I began politely crying to myself how I landed these people, who've known me for such a short time, who have already worked to lift me up in every small way. Through prayer (nothing quite more uniting than falling to your knees in desperate prayer together), hugs (a simple reminder that you are not alone), listening (on runs, one-on-one dates, and even reluctantly in group activities), protection (being catcalled by a truck of men while Adam and Ryan - two gentle, gentle hearts - come to your defense screams, "I've got you"), nurturing moments (so many small sacrifices for each other), and of course our biggest and best method: laughter.
Most of the time I've been here I've felt way in over my head. I've felt like I'm failing or faking or misplaced.
And then I have days like this. Where I'm forced to recognize how far I've come, what I've done and learned while I've been here, who I've shared parts of my heart with, and the ways I see our community building.
I take such comfort in knowing that together, we're (literally) running toward what's next (Honduras is SO CLOSE).
Comments
Post a Comment